The Conductor
by Book 'em Again
Summary: Richard Baker grew up listening to family stories about life on the Underground Railroad. So when he is sent to a POW camp, he becomes determined to follow in his ancestors' footsteps as he leads several prisoners in a daring escape right into the lair of the mysterious Papa Bear.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Follow the Drinking Gourd**

Author's Note: This story was written as part of the 2016 Hogan's Heroes Big Bang. Also, all song lyrics quoted in this story are in public domain. Thanks to honu59 for being a wonderful beta as always!

* * *

 _Follow the drinking gourd  
Follow the drinking gourd  
For the old man is a waitin'  
For to carry you to freedom  
Follow the drinking gourd_

 _When the sun comes up_  
 _And the first Quail calls_  
 _Follow the drinking gourd_  
 _For the old man is a waitin'_  
 _For to carry you to freedom_  
 _Follow the drinking gourd_

A traditional African-American spiritual, author unknown.

* * *

 _February 1931_

Richard Baker trembled as he peeked into the casket. He had never seen a dead person before. He wasn't sure what one would look like. But Mammaw looked like she was asleep. His Dad said that she was with Jesus now and he believed that. He knew that at ninety-eight years, that his great-grandmother was old and his family never hid from him the fact that she was dying even though he was only ten. But it was still a shock seeing her lying there.

For as long as Richard could remember, Mammaw had been a part of his life. She took no nonsense from anyone. If you were caught doing something bad, you prayed that it wasn't Mammaw who found out. She had a big wooden spoon and she wasn't afraid to give you a whooping if you deserved it. He would never forget the day she caught him lying about having homework. She didn't spank him that time. Instead, she pulled up her blouse and showed him the layers of scars that crisscrossed her back. She grabbed his hand and made him touch and feel the way they marred her skin.

 _"I was often whipped for being too slow, or looking at a white folk the wrong way. But my worst whipping came the day I found a newspaper on the ground. No one was around so I picked it up. I looked at the words and letters and wondered what they said. I wanted to know what they said. I wanted to learn to read. But slaves weren't allowed to learn. When the overseer caught me looking, he whipped me so hard, I thought I would die. Your ancestors fought long and hard so you can go to school. Don't you throw that gift away."_

He never complained about school again - at least not within Mammaw's hearing.

Reaching into the casket, Richard touched Mammaw's hand. The skin was cold, dry. It felt wrong. Her hands should be warm. Her arms should be wrapped around him in a big hug. Her fingers should be pointing toward the night sky...

 _"Look, Richie, you see those stars?"_

 _"Yes, Mammaw."_

 _"Those stars there, that's the drinking gourd, the big dipper. Find the star at the end and look up, and see the brightest star in the sky. That's the North Star. As long as you walk toward that star, you are walking north."_

 _"Is that how you escaped? You followed a star?"_

 _"Yes, for as long as you can find that star, you can find your way home."_

Home. What would home be like now without Mammaw there? Everyone knew her, the slave who had escaped and then went back South to work as a conductor on the Underground Railroad. She told her story to anyone who wanted to hear it. She said we all needed to know and to remember. But now she was dead. Who would tell the stories now? Who would remember?

Leaning forward, he kissed her brow. "I'll remember, Mammaw. I promise."

* * *

 _May 1942_

When Richard stepped off of the bus in Philadelphia, it was late. Instinctively, he glanced up at the night sky. He could barely see the stars due to the lights of the city, but still he looked. The action always reminded him that he was home.

Hiking up his duffel, Richard walked down the familiar streets. While the rest of the city was starting to drift off to sleep, his part of town was waking up. Night was the time when his people were free to be themselves. Free to express their culture in art and song.

From a bar across the street, the blare of trumpet player's warm up of scales and arpeggios caused him to wince. The instrument needed tuning, and its sound grated on his nerves. Richard had an ear for music, the ability to match pitch, to recognize the quality of a voice or an instrument. He loved music, good music, with every fiber of his being. But he was a Baker and that was only to be expected in his family.

His father worked as a DJ and his mother had sung professionally before she had married. His oldest sister could make the keys of a piano sing and his two younger sisters had inherited their mother's vocals. The entire family sang in the church choir where his older brother served as a pastor; his voice could boom out from the pulpit in both word and in song, whichever way the Spirit led.

However strong his musical gifts were, Richard would never be a professional. He lacked that extra factor that could make him a star. But that was fine, for where he truly excelled was in analyzing music, in identifying talent. It was gift that led him to attend Lincoln University in Oxford, PA to study business and music. Because if he couldn't be a star, he was going to make them.

As Richard walked past one of his favorite clubs, the sound of jazz made him stop. He recognized that band; they were one of his local favorites. Besides, after weeks of studying, he deserved a drink.

No sooner had he stepped through the door than a loud voice hollered, "Richard Baker. Good to see you. How's college life treating you?"

Richard smiled as James Jameson hurried over. Mr. Jameson owned the club and was an old friend of his father's - most of the people in the music business were. "Good; the semester's over. I turned in my last paper this afternoon and jumped on the bus home."

"How many years you got left?"

"One." The truth was more complicated than that, but he wasn't sure how Jameson would react. He knew his decision would be controversial.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"A brandy, please."

They walked over to the bar where Jameson poured his drink and then a second for himself. "You hear about rationing at this school of yours? I don't know how I'm going to be able to keep serving food if this war goes on."

Richard lifted his drink as if in a toast. "As long as they don't start rationing brandy. But if they do, people will still come for the music."

"Well, the war is throwing a wrench in that too. Too many bands are losing members to the draft. I could use a man like you working for me. You can scout, help the bands find people to fill their gaps. You've got one of the best ears in the business."

Richard took another drink. The offer was tempting. It would only help in a career where connections were everything. But he was no longer available. "Thank you for the offer. I wish I could, but I'm not going to be in Philadelphia for long."

"Drafted too?"

He shook his head. "No, I enlisted."

Jameson sighed. "Your father know yet?"

"I'll tell him tonight."

The two men grew silent as they nursed their drinks. When the band finished their set, Richard pushed his empty glass across the bar and pulled out his wallet.

A strong hand covered his. "This is on the house." Then with a weak smile, Jameson added, "When this war is over, I want to see you walk through that door in one piece. Be careful out there."

"Thank you." Then grabbing his bag again, Richard headed off to a conversation he both anticipated and dreaded.

Richard grew more nervous when he crossed into the white section of town and drew closer to the station that felt like a second family home. He had practically grown up at the station. As a boy, he would sit in awe as his father played music that sounded like magic to his ears. As a teenager, he would spend nights here with his father, learning how everything worked. He had even covered for his father a couple of times during his summers home from college.

Reaching his destination, Richard looked through the glass at his father. His father's voice on the air was a point of pride for many of his people who stayed up late for the chance to hear their music, their voices broadcast across the city. His father had worked hard to get on the air, to convince the white folk that there was money to be made in playing soul music.

Once the record was cued up and the microphone turned off, Richard walked into the room. "Hi, Dad!"

His father jumped to his feet. "Richard!"

Father and son hugged and when they pulled apart, the elder Baker began to talk. "You're home! Now you need to go talk to Jameson. He's got a summer job for you. A good one. It will be a good opportunity to get your foot in this business. Get you contacts with the right people. Then it will only be a matter of time before you graduate. Then we get can away from the white stations and start our own."

"Dad."

"With your skills, I know we can do it. You're getting the education I never had. With your knowledge, we'll go far. No one is going to stop us."

It pained Richard to know that he was about to break his father's heart. Placing on a firm hand on his father's shoulder, he said, "Dad, we need to talk."

The tone in his voice stopped his father cold. "What is it, son?"

"I've enlisted in the Tuskegee Program."

The silence was deafening and before he could say anything else, the song ended and he had to wait for his father to change the record. When his father turned back to him, he spoke one word, "Why?"

"I'm not going to sit back and wait to be drafted. Besides, they're doing good things at Tuskegee. They're going to let us fly."

"If you had waited a year, you could have gone in as an officer." Unspoken were the words that would be safer.

"I know, Dad, but I also know my roots. I'm going to be a radio operator."

"Why, son?" The elder Baker gestured at the studio. "I thought this was what we wanted. What _you_ wanted. Was I wrong?"

"I do want this. But before I can make music, I need to live a life that people would want to make music about." He paused. He wasn't making sense. "Look, Dad, there's not a radio station in this country that plays our music before ten o'clock at night. The only reason they let you take this shift is that they think no one is listening. I want to change that. But we'll never get the funding or the permission until folks look on our people with respect. As people. As equals. Fighting in this war will show them that we deserve their respect."

"You're a lot like your great grandmother, son. She believed that you had to fight to get freedom, fight to keep it. She would be proud of you."

Richard fought back the lump in his throat. He had been thinking a lot about Mammaw before making his decision. He knew that she would approve. But it wasn't her approval that he needed to hear. "Do I have your blessing, Dad?"

The song came to an end, and Richard was forced to wait again in silence for his father's answer. When the music began, his breath caught. The song was a popular one. Duke Ellington was one of the biggest names in jazz. The song, "Don't Get Around Much Anymore," was a fun one to play, but Richard knew it better by its original name, "Never No Lament."

No lament. No regrets. No looking back. His father had given him his blessing in the best way he knew how.

* * *

 _June 1943_

Baker groaned when the guard's voice woke him from his slumber. Surprise roll call. Great. Rolling out of his bunk, he shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his hat. He wondered what had gotten Kommandant Bernsdorf riled up this time.

Yawning as he lined up with the other men from his barracks, Baker's gaze was drawn to the night sky. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. If he could forget about the guards and the barbed wire and the fact that he was half a world away, he could almost pretend that he was camping with his family in Pennsylvania. He could pretend that he looking up at the stars, hearing his family talking and singing in the background.

Then instinctively, as he had done hundreds of times before, Baker looked until he spotted it - the drinking gourd - and followed it until he spotted the familiar north star.

 _As long as you can find that star, you can find your way home._

He was in a foreign country. He didn't know where he was or how far he'd have to travel to be free. Anyone who spotted him would know that he was an escaped prisoner. It would be dangerous, nay impossible. But Mammaw had crossed four states in her bid for freedom without really knowing where she was going or how long it would take. She knew that if anyone spotted her, she would be recognized as a runaway slave. But against the odds, she had made it. And she had gone back so that others could reach freedom, too.

How could he hesitate to escape when he owed his life to his ancestors who had taken the same risk? Somehow, someway, he'd find his way home.

He just needed to follow a star.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Didn't My Lord Deliver Daniel?**

 _Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel?  
Deliver Daniel, deliver Daniel?  
Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel?  
And why not every man?_

 _He delivered Daniel from the lion's den_  
 _And Jonah from the belly of the whale_  
 _And the Hebrew children from the fiery furnace_  
 _Why not every man?_

A traditional African-American spiritual, author unknown.

* * *

Baker briefly squinted at the rays of the sun coming through the camp window before returning his full attention to the poker game. He tried to ignore the fact that it was the perfect day to be outside with the sun shining bright and the breeze light. However, there was no point in pining over what you couldn't have and after the incident at morning roll call, Baker imagined that it would be a while before Kommandant Bernsdorf restored their privileges. Though if Bernsdorf hadn't wanted to hear a rousing chorus of _God Save the King_ , he shouldn't have taunted the large contingent of British POWs with the news of renewed bombings of England.

Tossing two cards aside, Baker said, "Two, please."

Captain Earl Wiggens dealt him his cards with a twinkle in his eye. If Baker were a suspicious man, he would suspect that the officer was trying to influence him. But in his short time at Stalag Four, he had learned that Wiggens normally kept a positive and upbeat attitude about things. The former sharecropper turned pilot from Georgia didn't let the war or his capture dampened his spirits.

"I fold," Hill said, to the surprise of no one at the table. Sergeant Clarence Hill was the conservative one of their group, a side effect, Baker suspected, of being the father of an infant son he had never met. He wasn't sure what had made the schoolteacher from St. Louis join the Tuskegee program but his convictions were as strong as any of theirs.

The last member of their quartet was Sergeant Martin Roque who was taking his good ole time in choosing his cards. But they knew better than to rush the youngest member of their group. For even though he looked like the wisp of a man, no one dared cross the Creole man who had grown up hunting alligators and other game in the bayous of Louisiana.

They were four very different men from different parts of the country. But due to the color of their skin, they had all trained together at the Tuskegee Institute and now shared the roomiest barracks in Stalag Four as their captors continued the segregationist policies of their own military. And even though they got along pretty well with the rest of men in camp, the separation was still there. They were bound together and Baker knew that, if he was going to escape, he wanted these men by his side.

Now he just had to figure out how to convince them that it was a good idea.

"Show your cards," Wiggens said after Roque finally made his move. The dealer smiled as he took the pot.

While Wiggens shuffled, Baker asked, "Any ideas for an act for the camp show this weekend?"

"We could always sing," Hill suggested, "but do you think Bernsdorf will restore our privileges by then?"

"It was just a song," Roque replied. "How mad can he really be? He'll be over it by tomorrow."

Baker picked up his new hand. "Songs can be the cause of lots of trouble if we play our cards right."

Wiggens looked thoughtful. "I like what you're thinking. We could really stick it to the Krauts by singing _Gospel Train_ or _Wade in the Water_."

"Too subtle," Hill said. "I doubt the Krauts would even recognize the themes."

Baker nodded. "If we want blatant, we should go with _Go Down, Moses._ I bet we could get the whole camp to shout 'Let my people go!'"

"Or _I'll Fly Away_ ," Wiggens added.

Roque grimaced. "If I'm going to end up in the cooler, I rather be in there for an actual escape attempt rather than just singing about it."

Baker grinned; he had his friends right where he wanted them. "Agreed. So how are we going to do it?"

Hill set down his hand. "Excuse me? Did I just hear you suggest that we should escape?"

"I did. Daniels managed it a couple weeks ago. No reason why we can't as well."

Hill huffed. "Daniels is one man. And just because he wasn't brought back here doesn't mean he got away. Besides, O'Shea and Miller also tried to escape last week and now they're stuck in the cooler for the rest of the month."

"I didn't say there wouldn't be any risk. But do you really want to be stationed here for the rest of the war?"

"Point," Roque agreed. "Besides, it doesn't hurt to plan. If we don't come up with a viable idea, no harm is done."

Baker wanted to hug the man. "Exactly."

Wiggens drummed his fingers against the table. "Baker, I'm guessing you wouldn't have brought this up without an idea of how to go about it."

"I have a couple, sir," Baker admitted. "But they still need some work. Can we count on help from our CO if we do this?"

Hill looked unsure. "Major Rossing is a competent CO and he's made sure that we've been treated fairly, but I doubt he'll be much help with planning an escape. He was transferred here from Stalag Thirteen."

"Stalag Thirteen?" Baker asked.

"The camp with no escapes," Roque explained. "I'm not sure that he's the best person to be going to for advice."

Wiggens joked, "Maybe he'll tell us what not to do."

Baker smiled. "Let's see if we can do better than Stalag Thirteen then."

* * *

Baker did his best to not think about all that was in the garbage can he was carrying as he lugged it across the compound. The scent alone was enough to make him nauseous. But since this was his idea, he had no choice but to grin and bear it as he lugged the trash closer to his target.

Roque nodded at him as he approached and then turned and threw the baseball in his hands to Hill. As Baker stepped behind his friend, Hill threw the ball back but it went over Roque's outstretched hand and hit the truck behind them. Diving backwards in an attempt to catch the wayward ball, Roque stumbled into Baker and the two POWs, along with the trash, went flying.

"What is the meaning of this?" one of the English speaking guards demanded as he marched over to the scene, clenching his rifle. "What have you done to the truck?"

Before either POW could answer, Captain Wiggens hurried over and took control of the situation. "My apologies, Sergeant Klein, my men will clean the truck for you right away. Right, men?"

"Yes, sir." the three POWs chorused.

"It better be spotless or I will report this incident to the Kommandant." Then turning on his heel, the guard marched off.

Everything was going according to plan so far. Though Baker didn't fail to note that the officer had conveniently approved a plan that let him supervise while the NCOs worked. Water and soap were brought over to the vehicle and they went to work cleaning not just the trash but the entire truck. And as they worked, they would see if perhaps this could be their way out.

None of them had any illusions that they would escape today. It had been clear from their many late night conversations back in their barracks that if they were going to escape, they had two options. One: escape and gain enough distance so that when the dogs found your trail - and Roque was insistent that a well trained dog would - that you were too far away for it to matter. Or two: get creative and trick the guards so that even if the dogs found your scent, their handlers wouldn't believe them.

The first option had appeared to be the more reasonable until they realized that they didn't have enough manpower to tunnel. And just going through the wire and trying to escape on foot would most likely lead to recapture. Which left trickery. Because if they couldn't get out in front of the dogs, they had to plan to go behind them.

Baker wet his rag and climbed up the side of the truck to work on the roof. Beneath him, Hill crawled out from underneath the vehicle. "It's possible to hold onto the bottom, but it would be risky and who knows how hot the metal gets," he said. "And if you let go you could get run over."

Roque rolled his eyes. "Always, Mr. Sunshine."

"Can it, you two," Wiggens ordered. "Keep looking."

The Louisiana man quieted down and investigated the inside of the truck, checking the benches to see if the tops were removable - they weren't. Baker, meanwhile, started moving down the side of the truck, though rolled up tarps along the side were getting in his way. They were big, but as the weather was getting warmer, keeping the tarps up was essential to allowing cool air into the vehicle. Getting an idea, Baker fingered the rolled up tarp. The way they were tied, you couldn't see inside, but there was room inside... Could this be their way out?

Wiggens softly called out from where he stood. "Don't turn around, our CO is watching us."

Baker was glad for the warning, because his immediate instinct was to turn and look. "Do you think he'll come over, sir?"

"No, he's moving away."

Baker jumped now to wet his rag and saw that Wiggens was correct. "Check out the tarps. Do you think we could hide in there?"

Roque immediately examined the one on his side. "It could work."

"We'd have to consider balance," Hill added. "We don't want one side hanging down more than the other."

Wiggens smiled. "Thankfully, we're four. Finish up, men. I think we have the beginning of a plan."

Ten minutes later, the truck sparkled and the POWs were freed to return to their barracks. Their spirits were high. They'd successfully tricked the Krauts into letting them discover their way out and it looked like no one was the wiser. Baker wanted to escape with every fiber of his being and knowing that his friends were on board with taking this chance meant the world to him. They were really going to do this.

Hill opened the door to their barracks, but stopped in the doorway. Peeking inside, Baker noticed that Major Rossing was seated inside. Baker's breath caught in his throat - it appeared their activities hadn't gone unnoticed after all. But did Rossing come to hinder or to help?

"Come in and sit down," the officer ordered.

The Tuskegee Airmen exchanged looks as they took their seats. Baker debated ways to convince the officer to support them, even though he knew that he was going to have to trust Wiggens to take the lead and argue their case.

Rossing didn't waste any time cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "You're planning an escape."

Wiggens betrayed no emotion as he replied, "What makes you think that, sir?"

"I've seen that trick used before."

"At Stalag Thirteen? Really?" Roque snorted, but a raised eyebrow from Wiggens made him hastily add, "Sir."

Rossing smiled. "Sgt. Daniels came to me before he escaped and I was able to assist him. O'Shea and Miller attempted to do things on their own and are now in the cooler. I'm willing to help you, but only you can decide if you want that help."

Rossing sounded serious and Baker had to admit that his respect for the officer was rising with every word he spoke. This was a man he wanted on their side. Catching Wiggens' eye, Baker nodded. _Tell him_ , he silently pleaded.

Wiggens either heard his silent plea or came to the same conclusion on his own. "Very well, sir. We're hoping to escape, too, but we are still working on our plan."

"But you have an idea," Rossing pressed.

The Captain nodded. "Baker."

Without hesitation, Baker shared what he noticed about the truck and explained the current draft of the plan. When he finished, he waited for Rossing to tell him that they were crazy. That his plan would never work. That even if they got out of camp, they'd never make it out of the country because the color of their skin would make it clear that they were escaping prisoners. But when the Major spoke, it was with words of encouragement rather than dismissal. "I've seen similar plans work. Have you thought about what you'll do once you're out?"

Roque spoke up, "Head for France, sir. I know French and, if we can find some allies, they could help us get to Spain or Switzerland."

"What if I told you there was a better option? An option that Daniels took. One where you could meet up with some allies in Germany who could help you get out of the country. Would you take it?"

This time, there was no hesitation as they all said, "Yes, sir."

As Rossing talked, Baker couldn't help but smile. They were going to do this. They were really going to escape. If only Mammaw could see him now!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Steal Away**

 _Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus  
Steal away, steal away home  
I ain't got long to stay here_

 _My Lord, He calls me  
He calls me by the thunder  
The trumpet sounds within-a my soul  
I ain't got long to stay here_

A traditional African-American spiritual composed by Wallis Willis.

* * *

 _Breathe in, breathe out._ Baker tried to steady his nerves as darkness descended on Stalag Four. This was the night. They only had a limited amount of time to get into position before evening roll call and they were going to need every second.

A light tapping sound alerted Baker. In response, he swung open the window and helped Roque climb back inside. The Creole man said, "The coast is clear. Follow me."

Without hesitation, Baker followed, Hill behind him with Captain Wiggens bringing up the rear. They were all careful to mirror Roque's movements as he was the only one with experience in moving about unseen.

They managed to cross the compound without incident, ducking behind some trashcans when the spotlights came near.

The motor pool was unguarded; their Kommandant apparently believed that the locked gate was sufficient. Baker was grateful for whomever Rossing had arranged to pick the lock for them as they ducked inside.

The POWs split into two groups; Baker was partnered with Wiggens because they were closest in size. Moving over to the closest truck, the radioman checked that the rolled up tarp was tied securely and then climbed inside.

It took several minutes of wiggling before Baker found a position that he was confident he could hold once the truck started moving. But he took no chances, testing out his ability to get a good grip on the inner layer of the tarp.

Sweat trickled down his cheek as the minutes ticked by. He hadn't thought about how hot it would be inside. But he wasn't going to complain, he would remain positive. They were going to escape. They were going to make it out of Germany and back to their unit.

Voices in the distance told Baker that roll call had begun and as those voices turned to shouts; it did not take long for the guards to notice that an entire barracks of men was missing. The alarm blared, dogs barked and soon the truck began to vibrate as it was started and guards jumped aboard.

Gripping the tarp with all his might, Baker gritted his teeth and tried to remain as still as possible while the truck and the tarp bounced him around. The guards were driving him out of camp!

They picked up speed which meant they were out of the gate. Knowing that the others were counting on him to navigate, he reminded himself that the camp gate faced east. One turn and then a second and he was confident that they were southwest of Stalag Four when the truck came to a stop and the soldiers jumped out and began to search the woods.

Baker waited for the voices to disappear before slowly opening the end of the tarp, sticking his head out and to look around. No guards were stationed at the rear of the vehicle. However, he still had to be quiet because he had to work under the assumption that the driver was nearby.

Moving more quietly than he ever had in his life, Baker grabbed the side of the truck and slowly slid out of the tarp. Once his feet were free, he dropped to the ground and quickly rolled under the truck where he bumped right into Captain Wiggens who had beaten him there.

Wiggens held one finger up and pointed to the driver's seat. _So the driver had stayed behind!_ Then he gestured for his companion to wait and watch. While Baker waited, Wiggens crawled out from underneath the truck, The officer then jogged a foot down the road and disappeared behind a tree.

Baker counted to thirty, waiting to see if the driver had heard any noise and planned to investigate. When no movement seemed forthcoming, he made sure the road was still clear and then mirrored the Major's actions exactly. When he reached the tree, he took three deep breaths and then crawled into some nearby bushes.

The two POWs waited in silence as the guards completed their search of the area. Baker peered through some leaves and watched the soldiers climb back into the truck. One lone guard trailed the group with a German Shepherd at his side. The man stopped at the back of the truck and waited his turn to climb in. The dog's ears perked up and he began to sniff the ground, tugging on the leash as he attempted to crawl beneath the vehicle.

Baker held his breath; the dog had picked up their scent! However, luck was on their side; the handler ignored his dog's instincts and ordered him into the truck. Nothing could have wiped the smile off his face as the truck drove away. He did it! They really managed to escape! For Baker had no doubt that Hill and Roque would be able to get away from their guards as well.

"Baker," Wiggens said softly. "Do you have an idea of where we are?"

"Yes, sir. We're southwest of camp." Then pointing at the night sky, he found a familiar star. "That's north so if we head that way..." He gestured west. "...we will reach a small creek and, hopefully, the rest of our group." In case they were recaptured, none of the POWs carried maps, but Rossing had access to several and they all had spent hours memorizing every detail they could before their escape. Since they figured they would be split up, the four men had agreed to meet there.

Wiggens nodded and gestured for Baker to take the lead. It was slow going as they wanted to keep the road in sight, but at the same time stay in the woods so that they could duck down and hide anytime they heard a car or people coming. They reached the destination first but Hill and Roque were only ten minutes behind them. Baker grinned; they were a team and they were going to escape together!

Without saying a word, the POWs began the long journey north. Their destination was the outskirts of a small town called Hammelburg and the help that he hoped to find there. The trip would take them several days, but escape was a family tradition and Baker was not going to let his ancestors down.

So with a star as his guide, he began the long journey home.

* * *

"What is this man doing here?"

Hogan smirked at the perpetually irate Gestapo officer who was currently standing in the middle of Klink's office. "I can leave if you want. I've heard London is lovely this time of year." Then looking at the other German in the room, he added, "Just order your men to open the gates and I'll be gone before you know it."

Klink gasped. "Hogan! No one ever escapes from Stalag Thirteen."

"Gee, he wants me to leave and you want me to stay. You sure know how to confuse a fellow."

"Enough!" Hochstetter snarled. "Klink, I need some of your guards, incompetent as they are, to patrol the area. Four men have escaped from Stalag Four."

"Impossible. I have no men to spare. Besides, these men escaped from Major Bernsdorf's camp. You should be taking his men."

"Not to mention searching over there," Hogan added unhelpfully.

A vein in Hochstetter's forehead was bulging dangerously. "These men are coming here. They are coming to meet Papa Bear."

Hogan laughed. "This again. I thought this Papa Bear of yours ran around blowing things up. Why would this guy bother with escaped prisoners?"

"More downed flyers have disappeared in this part of Germany than any other. Prisoners escape, we track them here, they disappear. You may have fooled this traitor, but you don't fool me. Give me your men, Klink, or I will take your whole camp."

Klink whimpered and squirmed under Hochstetter's glare as his courage faded away. "For the Gestapo, I can spare a few men."

"Have them ready in an hour," Hochstetter ordered before storming out of the office.

Leaving Klink to figure out how to run his camp with fewer men, Hogan returned to the barracks. If these escapees were coming here, he would be ready. So after grabbing a cup of coffee from LeBeau, he asked, "Are we expecting company?"

Kinch nodded. "Yes, the four men from Stalag Four should arrive tomorrow tonight."

"Newkirk, LeBeau, you'll meet them tomorrow and bring them in. Be careful. Hochstetter's on the prowl."

"We heard," Newkirk said.

Carter nudged his friend. "Hey, it's not too bad. Hochstetter is borrowing our guards. Avoiding them should be a piece of pie."

The rest of the barracks rolled their eyes as they all replied in unison, "Cake!"

* * *

Grabbing a stick from the ground, Baker quickly drew a rough sketch of the map in his head. This was their third night on the run and they should be close to their destination. He was confident that the town they had spotted to the east was Hammelburg. It would be in these woods that they would find their contact - whoever he was - Rossing had provided no details beyond the code name Papa Bear _._

The leaves rustled above his head and Baker looked up as Roque climbed down from the tree. He pointed at the makeshift map. "These roads intersect about two miles to the northeast."

Wiggens nodded as he said, "We're supposed to wait for our contact in the trees west of that intersection." Looking down at his watch, he added, "And we should make it with plenty of time to spare."

While Rossing had told them that their contact would check their meeting place for three nights, the four POWs had no desire to spend another day in hiding. They were all tired and hungry and hopeful that their contact could at least provide them with a safe place to lay their heads for a night.

"Just one problem, sir," Roque said, "That area is crawling with Krauts. I spotted patrols here, here and here."

Hill frowned; they just had to skirt around a group of soldiers who were patrolling the woods to the south. "Do you think we are near a base?"

Wiggens shook his head. "That makes no sense. Why send us to a location where there's a high risk of getting caught?"

"Krauts coming!" Hill hissed before diving under a nearby bush.

Roque and Wiggens quickly climbed up the nearest trees while Baker destroyed his drawing and joined Hill. Peering through the leaves, Baker spotted two guards slowly coming towards them. From the uniforms he could tell the guards were Lufftwaffe, but something didn't feel right. It wasn't until the guards walked right past his hiding place that he figured out what is was.

The soldiers looked bored. And more importantly, they weren't even examining their surroundings. If they had looked, they could have spotted signs of the escapees' presence, but these men weren't even trying.

Someone had ordered them to do this patrol, but this pair apparently couldn't be bothered to do their job properly - not that he was complaining!

Once the Germans were out of earshot, the POWs came out of hiding. Roque jerked his head in the direction they needed to go and the other three let the experienced woodsman take the lead.

It took them three times as long as it should have to reach their destination due to their continued need to dodge patrols. Luckily, the soldiers they encountered were cut from the same cloth as the others; none of them were very alert. Baker figured that the Germans must have placed all of their competent men at the front or they would have already lost the war. However, he worried that the soldiers might scare Papa Bear away. Half of the escaped POW was sure that there was no way their contact would attempt to find them with so many soldiers out and about. But his other half refused to give up hope. They hadn't come this far to fail now.

All four POWs kept a careful watch as the minutes passed, but none of them noticed or were prepared for what happened next.

The snap of a stick caused Baker to jerk his head to the left, but before he could hide, a large German Shepherd trotted into the clearing. The POWs all froze. They barely dared to breathe. All the dog had to do was bark and they would be discovered, for it was clear from the military collar around his neck that the animal belonged to the soldiers.

Baker mentally sorted through his options. They could run, but the dog would probably attack. They couldn't just stand there, because the dog's handlers had to be close by. He didn't have a weapon to kill the animal, and even if he did, that would probably make too much noise and the soldiers would still find them.

Frozen by indecision, he glanced at his friends but they looked just as stumped as he. Perhaps if they backed up slowly?

The dog stepped forward and Baker jumped back, but the animal wasn't attacking The dog's tail was ... was... wagging!

Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice called out, "What are you doing here?"

The Tuskegee Airmen raised their arms into the air as two soldiers came into sight, but the shorter one went straight to the German Shepherd whose tail was now moving at a very rapid pace! The taller soldier smirked as he patted the guard dog on the head, ""Wolfgang, you're scaring these little bears."

Baker simply could not believe his eyes. Who were these soldiers that were speaking English and were dressed in British and French uniforms? What in the world was going on? They must have also escaped, but ...

Little bears!

'Little bears' was a reference to the fairy tale which meant these two men were their contacts! Seeing that the others were still frozen in shock, Baker lowered his hands and gave the code. "Goldilocks stole our porridge and we are looking for more."

"Papa Bear keeps some back at the cottage. The name's Newkirk and this is LeBeau."

Wiggens stepped forward and pointed at each of them in turn. "Wiggens, Baker, Hill and Roque." Then looking askance at the German Shepherd, he added, "And the dog?"

LeBeau grinned. "Is only a threat to people wearing German uniforms, sir." Pushing the dog gently away, he said, "Go on, shoo." To the continued surprised of the four escaped prisoners, the dog obeyed. "Follow me."

The six men crept through the woods in silence. Their two contacts seemed unconcerned by the presence of the patrols as simply ducked underneath brush whenever one passed by.

When they came within sight of their destination, the Tuskegee Airmen stopped in their tracks. Baker took one look at the guard towers, spotlights and barbed wire and immediately clapped a hand across his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

At that moment, a lot of things began to make sense: Major Rossing, the odd soldiers patrolling the woods, friendly guard dogs, Newkirk and LeBeau. The whole thing was one big con.

"He's laughing," Newkirk said. "That's a new one, that is."

"Sergeant," Wiggens ordered, "get control of yourself."

Didn't they see? They had treated it like a joke, but if Baker was right - and he was confident he was - then the joke was on them. "Sir." He gestured toward the camp. "It's Stalag Thirteen."

Wiggens was struck speechless, Hill's eyes grew wide and Roque joined his friend in having to hold back laughter of his own. For the camp they all had dismissed for having no escapees had done more than fool the Krauts, it had fooled them all.

So it was with a newfound level of respect that the escaped POWs followed their rescuers through a tree stump and down into the lair of one very clever Papa Bear.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Walk Together Children**

 _Walk together children  
Don' you get weary  
Walk together children_ _  
Don't you get weary  
Oh, talk together children  
Don't you get weary_ _  
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land_

 _Sing together children  
Don' you get weary  
Sing together children_ _  
Don't you get weary  
Oh, shout together children  
Don't you get weary_ _  
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land_

A traditional African-American spiritual, author unknown.

* * *

"Wow!" Baker whistled.

"Impressive," Wiggens agreed.

"I've never seen anything like this," Hill said.

Baker knew that they must have looked like kids who had walked into a candy store for the first time while they made their way through the tunnels of Stalag Thirteen with wide eyes and heads constantly moving from side to side as they took everything in.

Roque glanced over at their guides. "The Krauts don't know about this?"

Newkirk grinned. "Not a clue."

"Most of the guards wouldn't want to know," LeBeau added.

When they turned the corner, Baker stopped in his tracks. In spite of the many impossible things he had already witnessed, this was something else entirely. It was breathtaking and it was beautiful. Taking a tentative step forward, his fingers itched to inspect the mechanics, to learn how the man responsible for this creation had cobbled together such an impressive device with what looked to be spare parts and ingenuity.

"Don't touch," Newkirk warned. "Kinch is very protective of his radio."

Baker furrowed his brow. _Kinch_. That name sounded familiar though he was having trouble placing it.

"Trust me," LeBeau said. "Make coffee in the wrong pot _once_ and some people will never let you hear the end of it. Messing with _that_ would be much worse." While LeBeau's words didn't entirely make sense, the meaning was clear. Forcing his eyes away from the radio, Baker followed the two POWs over to the ladder.

Climbing up through a rather clever bunk mechanism, Baker found himself standing in a barracks that looked like the one he had just left. The room was full of POWs and a Colonel in a bomber jacket stepped forward to introduce himself. Baker raised his arm to salute, but his eyes were drawn to the man standing to the officer's left. "Kinchloe!"

"Baker!" Grinning from ear to ear, the POW embraced his friend. Then holding out his hand, he said, "Captain Wiggens, you probably don't remember me, but it is an honor to see you again, sir." After shaking hands, he looked over at Roque and Hill and said, "I remember seeing you two at Tuskegee, but I don't think we ever met."

"The name's Roque and this is Hill. How'd you end up in this outfit?"

"It's a long story..."

The Colonel looked amused as he cleared his throat. "I hate to break up the class reunion..."

Kinchloe looked a little guilty as he turned back toward the officer. "Sorry, sir. I trained with these men at Tuskegee and we served together in the 477th." Pointing towards his CO, he said, "This is Colonel Hogan."

"An honor, sir," Wiggens said as they shook hands.

Hogan gestured towards the table in the center of the room. "Take a seat."

Baker realized just how tired he was as he sank into a seat and a steaming cup of coffee was placed before him. Yet, in spite of his exhaustion, he couldn't help but smile. For not only had they come to a place where they were safe but, from seeing how the rest of the men interacted with Kinchloe, it was clear that they'd come to a place where they were also welcome.

"What happens next, sir?" Hill asked after taking a drink from his mug.

"Well, normally we'd set you up with civilian clothes and papers. You'd pose as locals and travel to the coast where you'd meet a sub and head off to England." Hogan smiled. "However, something tells me you lot won't pass as Germans."

Baker's face fell. They'd come too far to be stymied now. However, Kinchloe noticed and quickly reassured his friends. "No worries, we'll get you out. We've helped others who the Krauts were actively looking for before."

"Exactly," Hogan agreed. "It will just take a little longer to set up with the Underground. So we ask you to be patient and enjoy our hospitality for a couple of days."

"That won't be a problem, Colonel," Wiggens said.

Hogan rubbed his hands together. "Good..."

Suddenly, an American Sergeant who had been doing something over by the barracks sink called out, "Schultz is coming."

Concerned, the escapees started to rise but Hogan ordered them to remain seated. Newkirk quickly joined them at the table and before he knew it, Baker was holding five cards in his hands and there was a pile of chips in front of him.

"Hiya, Schultz. Boy, do you look beat," the POW who announced the guard's coming said when the German entered the room

"Easy, Carter," Hogan ordered. "Give the man some room. I don't know how you can run this camp with half the guards. Has Hochstetter mentioned when he'll give you your men back?"

The large guard sighed as he set his rifle against the wall. "When the four escapees from Stalag Four are found and not a moment before."

"That's not right, that is," Newkirk announced as he threw a couple chips into the center of the table. "The guards at the other camp lost the prisoners, why should you have to find them?"

"Tell that to the Gestapo."

Baker was finding this conversation very illuminating. It certainly explained why the guards in the woods hadn't bothered to search as they patrolled. They didn't think they had any reason to be out!

Schultz came closer but, when he spotted what the men at the table were doing, he said sharply, "Gambling is verboten."

Kinch shrugged. "You're just upset that we didn't tell you about the game."

"That, too." The guard glanced around the table. For a few moments, Baker believed that they were going to go unnoticed until Schultz suddenly pointed straight at him! "You do not live in this barracks. Nor do you or you or you."

Baker forced himself to remain calm. None of the barracks' residents looked concerned. He just needed to follow their lead.

Newkirk shuffled the deck, the cards dancing around his fingers. "Schultz, do you have any idea how hard it is to find people willing to play with me?"

Carter rolled his eyes. "I wonder why."

"Must be the card up his sleeve," LeBeau murmured loudly.

"There's more than one," Hogan said as he leaned over and rolled up his man's sleeve - three cards fell out. All high value.

Schultz shook his head. "Newkirk, didn't anyone tell you it's not nice to cheat?"

"I must have missed that day at school."

Hogan smirked - the officer was clearly enjoying this. "And everyone in camp knows Newkirk's reputation. The only way to get a game was to look outside of camp for players.

"Outside of camp?" The panic in Schultz' voice rose with each word. "The men from Stalag Four! I must report this to Colonel Klink right away!"

"Report what to Colonel Klink?"

"That I found Major Hochstetter's missing prisoners."

"You mean that you let these men sneak into this camp on _your_ watch, past _your_ guards, and hide out in the barracks _you're_ responsible for?"

Schultz groaned. "Colonel Hogan."

"You're a brave man, Schultz, braver than I. Willing to risk assignment to the Russian Front just to ensure that these men are recaptured."

The words 'Russian Front' were clearly too much for the guard, and as he backed out of the door, he declared, "I hear nothing! I see nothing! I know nothing!"

When the door slammed shut, Baker couldn't help but notice what the German forgot. "Did he just leave his rifle?"

"That's Schultz for you," Carter said with grin.

LeBeau began cleaning up the empty mugs. "He'll be back."

The Frenchman was right, as no sooner did those words leave his mouth then did the door to the barracks swung slowly open and the guard tiptoed back into the room, grabbed his gun and then tiptoed back out without a word.

Baker shook his head as he chuckled softly to himself. It was hard to believe everything that he had seen, but if this was some crazy dream, it was one from which he didn't want to wake.

* * *

Baker was happy. Once Kinchloe realized that his friend's experience with radios was more extensive than simply knowing how to work the standard units they used in the 477th, he not only allowed Baker the closer look he wanted, but also allowed him to assist in cleaning the equipment; something that must have been a never-ending task considering that the radio was surrounded by dirt. But at least the time passed quickly as the two friends reminisced about their days at Tuskegee.

"And then Captain Josephs swore he'd never eat peanut butter again!" Kinchloe said with a laugh.

Baker chuckled as he pictured the scene perfectly in his head. But he had a better story than that one. "Remember when..." he stopped when the tapping of the Morse key filled the tunnel.

Baker knew he should ignore the message coming through, but he was curious and it had been a while since he'd heard Morse code. Perhaps it had been too long. The code coming through didn't make much sense. Wait...papa. He understood that and maybe 'bar' was a misspelling of bear. Suddenly, it hit him. The word wasn't 'bar' but 'bär'. The message was coming through in German!

Excited and now eager to translate as much of this as he could, Baker concentrated. Kinchloe was talking to someone named Prince Charming, but whatever they were discussing alluded him. He understood most of the words but they were clearly speaking in code. As the communication continued, Baker had to resist the urge to whistle, because keeping Morse code, German, and a code in your head at the same time while translating it all into English was a pretty impressive feat.

The conversation ended, Kinchloe finished up his notes and then turned back to his guest. "I need to send this information on."

Taking the hint, Baker rose. "I'll be with the others." But before he could leave, LeBeau burst into the room. "Hochstetter's here and he's demanding Klink hold a roll call."

"Great," Kinchloe said as he rose. "Don't the Germans know that we have work to do?"

The three POWs froze as the sound of another message filled the tunnel. Kinch looked over toward the radio, torn. Stepping forward, Baker said, "I can take a message for you."

Sitting back down, Kinchloe grabbed his headset. "In German?"

"The last message you received was Prince Charming reporting on the movement of some wolves."

LeBeau looked shocked, but Kinchloe just waved Baker away. "They don't know your hand. Go upstairs and cover for me. The guards will never notice as long as the numbers match up."

Go upstairs! Was Kinchloe crazy? But Baker wasn't given the option to protest as LeBeau grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the ladder. Resigned to his fate, Baker hurried upstairs and was surprised that no one in barracks gave him a second glance as the Frenchman led him outside.

Baker shuffled his feet as he stood in Kinchloe's spot and looked around the camp. There was no doubt that he was in a prisoner of war camp as nothing on the surface suggested that there was a labyrinth of tunnels beneath their feet. But this was still nuts. He knew that white people had trouble telling his people apart, but Kinchloe was taller, darker and he had a mustache!

Breathing in and out, Baker decided to just stare at Hogan's back. He didn't like the look of the Gestapo officer standing next to what looked like the camp kommandant and he didn't want his nerves to give the whole thing away.

Schultz walked over and began to count. But when he reached the end of the line, there was no doubt that the guard recognized him because he stopped counting. "Colonel Hogan," he whined.

The officer shrugged. "What's wrong, Schultz? Fifteen men are here."

"They aren't the same fifteen men I had this morning."

"They aren't?" When Schultz looked like he was about to burst, Hogan quickly added, "He's just here to play a quick rematch against Newkirk tonight and then he'll be on his way."

Getting a good sense for how this game was played, Baker said, "He took me for every cent I had. I deserve the chance to win my money back."

Hogan gave him a quick wink and then turned his attention back to the guard. "See, what did I tell you? Besides, don't we give you a second chance when you lose?"

Newkirk added, "And a third and a fourth and a fifth..."

Schultz groaned but he turned back around when the Kommandant approached the men. "Report!" the officer hollered.

Schultz saluted. "All present and accounted for."

The Kommandant turned to the Gestapo man at his left. "What did I tell you, Major? No one ever escapees from Stalag Thirteen and no one ever escapees intoStalag Thirteen. I suggest you conduct your search elsewhere."

A vein on the man's forehead bulged dangerously as he declared, "Bah." Then turning on his heel, he marched off.

After being dismissed, the POWs returned to the barracks. Baker felt several hearty slaps hit his back as the men praised him for his quick thinking outside. Unsure of how to respond, he nodded and took a seat at the table.

"Shame we have to send you to London," Carter said as he joined him. "You'd fit right in with how you handled Schultz."

 _Stay here!_ Was Carter crazy? Thankfully, Baker was saved from coming up with a response when the special bunk opened and Kinchloe climbed into the room. "Good news," he announced. "The message was from the Underground; they'll be ready for the escapees tomorrow night. You're going home!"

Baker grinned. "After the chaos earlier, it makes me glad that we're getting out of here." Yet, once the words had left his mouth, his grin faded. He should be excited, yet, he felt a twinge of something else...Was it guilt? Regret? This was crazy. He was going to escape and that was all that mattered. After all, it was what he wanted, wasn't it?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Hush, Hush Somebody's Calling My Name**

 _Hush, hush somebody's calling my name  
Hush, hush somebody's calling my name  
Hush, hush somebody's calling my name  
Oh my Lord, Oh my Lord, what shall I do, what shall I do?_

 _I'm so glad, troubles don't last always  
I'm so glad, troubles don't last always  
I'm so glad, troubles don't last always  
Oh my Lord, Oh my Lord, what shall I do, what shall I do?_

A traditional African-American spiritual, author unknown.

* * *

Baker laid on his surprisingly comfortable bunk and tried to fall asleep. He was a soldier, he should be able to fall asleep anywhere and at any time but tonight, the rest he needed eluded him. Looking over at the other escapees, he noticed that he was alone in his troubles. If only he could turn his brain off...

Baker gave a silent sigh. He might as well wish for the moon; there was no way he was getting any sleep tonight. Not when by this time tomorrow he'd be on his way to London. Not when his dream of escaping was so close to being fulfilled.

Realizing that he was making no progress, he slowly rolled out of his bunk and stepped into the tunnel. If he just walked a little, maybe then he'd wear himself out. But as he began to walk, he heard a very familiar sound. Someone was at the radio and he knew who.

By the time Baker reached the radio, the communication had been completed. Stepping into the room, he asked, "What are you doing?"

Kinchloe didn't look up from his work. "Go to bed, Baker. I've still got several messages to code and send, and I would like to get some sleep tonight so I don't have time to talk."

Baker turned to leave, but a glance back made him stop in his tracks. His friend was hunched over the radio, one hand writing away while the other rubbed his forehead. This was insane. Kinchloe looked exhausted; did the man ever sleep? Didn't he have any help? No person could do this job all by himself, yet it looked like that was just what Kinchloe was trying to do. It wasn't Baker's place to say anything, but his friend was going to burn out - that was, if he hadn't already.

Turning back to the tired radioman, Baker said, "You need help."

Kinchloe faked a smile. "I've got this. I'll be finished in an hour. You need to rest."

Baker knew he should obey, but if he didn't say something, who would? "Why won't you let me help you?"

"Baker, I'm fine. Go to bed."

"No, Kinch." Baker used the name he had heard the others use. "You're exhausted. You're in a camp full of radio operators but the only person I ever see down here is you. Why?"

Kinch sighed and rose to his feet. "No one else is qualified. This radio was cobbled together with spare parts and a prayer. Most of the operators in camp wouldn't have the slightest idea of how to fix her when she acts up. And those who do don't speak fluent German."

"Those are excuses and you know it."

"In this business, you have to know everyone's hand. You tell the wrong information to someone's hand you don't recognize and you get the Gestapo at your door. I know the names, the codes and the frequencies of all of the Underground agents in the whole sector. Not even Colonel Hogan knows all that." Kinch took a step forward so he was standing mere inches from his opponent's face. "You think I should give that information out to the whole camp? You think I should risk this whole operation just to get a little more sleep?"

Baker crossed his arms; he refused to be intimidated. "That's an excuse for not telling the whole camp, but what about trusting one man? Are you telling me that there isn't one man in this camp you can train to work this equipment? One man whose hand you can introduce to your agents? What happens if you get caught outside the wire? Or worse?"

"I trust that the Colonel can get me out. Look, Baker, I appreciate your concern, but I didn't come down here to be lectured by you."

Baker shook his head in disgust. "That's a waste. You're a leader, Kinchloe. That was obvious back at Tuskegee, and it is obvious watching you here. Colonel Hogan trusts you. His men trust you! I don't have to tell you how big that is for our people. But you can't do this alone! What good is earning the trust of white men if you aren't willing to trust others in return?"

Those words struck a nerve and Kinch began to yell, "You think you can do my job better than me? You volunteering to stay behind?"

Baker stepped back. "That's not-"

The loud sound of a throat clearing filled the small space.

Turning, the two Tuskegee Airmen spotted Colonel Hogan standing in the middle of the tunnel, his arms crossed and his face set in anger.

And for the first time since he had escaped, Baker wished that he was back at Stalag Four.

* * *

Hogan studied the two the radiomen who steadfastly avoided looking at one another while they waited for the officer to speak. The looks on their faces would have told the story of their heated argument if Hogan hadn't heard most it of already. Though perhaps he shouldn't pride himself on his ability to read men when an outsider had noticed something in a couple of days that he should have noticed months ago: Kinch needed help.

Hogan needed to speak with both men, but he was going to have to take this one man at a time and there was no question of which radioman he had to speak with first. "Baker, wait here. Kinch, come with me."

"Yes, sir," two voices murmured.

Trusting that his orders would be obeyed, Hogan turned and headed back upstairs. When Kinch stepped inside his quarters, Hogan closed the door and gestured for his man to take a seat.

Sitting down, Kinch asked softly, "How much did you hear, sir?"

"Enough."

"Look, Baker is a good man, but his concern is misplaced. I tried to tell him that and he refused to believe me. I shouldn't have yelled, but I guess he hit a nerve." There was a pleading look in the Tuskegee Airman's eyes.

Choosing his words carefully, Hogan said, "Kinch, without you, we wouldn't be able to do most of what we do."

"All due respect, sir, I can hear the 'but' coming."

"Baker isn't wrong. You need help and I've been a fool not to see it."

"When have I failed you, sir? I've done everything you asked of me. If you aren't satisfied with my work, tell me!"

There it was. The real reason Kinch was upset. He was afraid. Afraid of showing weakness, afraid of being replaced. So he hadn't spoken up even as the workload grew. Hogan needed to choose his next words very carefully."Kinch, your work has been exemplary. And your position on this team is not going to change, but I'm ordering you to train an assistant."

The Sergeant was silent for several moments. When he finally spoke, he said one word, "Who?"

Hogan racked his brain. He not only needed only a competent man, but one he was confident would respect Kinch as a man and not just follow orders. "What about Sergeant Atkinson?"

"Doesn't speak German."

Hogan frowned; this was going to be more difficult than he had realized. "I thought he was attending classes."

"That's good enough to exchange a few words with the guards, but not to send coded messages to the Underground using Morse Code. This job requires the operator to be fluent."

That was a problem. There weren't many men who knew more than the basics. Studying German hadn't been a popular option after the last war. _Wait a second..._ Hogan eyes widened in shock when he realized something important. "You already looked for help?"

Kinchloe sighed as the truth came out. "Yes, sir, I have. Months ago when you began expanding the scope of our operations. No one else in camp is qualified."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because it would have made no difference. The work needed to be done, and someone had to do it."

Hogan could see how tired his man was now. How his determination to do his work without complaint had stretched him to his limits. But as concerned as he was about his man's wellbeing, a greater operational concern rose to prominence in his mind. If no one else in camp was qualified to communicate with the Underground, then Kinch's position here was even more valuable than he had already realized. "In that case, I cannot allow you to participate in missions outside of camp until we find someone qualified to assist you."

The hurt on Kinch's face was unmistakable. "That's not fair, sir! You've never had a problem with me leaving camp before."

"I didn't realize until now how difficult it would be to have a radio operator in camp take over your position if something happened to you."

"Atkinson knows how to use the radio to contact London in an emergency; I made sure of that."

Hogan was glad to know that, but the risk was still too great. "We'll send a request to London. They'll send us a man. Unless..." he paused as a possible solution occurred to him. "Why was Baker so convinced that he could help?"

Kinch sank back down into his seat. His expression gave away the truth before his words confirmed it. "Because he knows German."

Hogan silently whistled. The solution to their problem was right in front of them, but Kinch was still clearly hesitant and he needed to know why. "Baker's qualified?"

"Baker has all the skills we need," Kinch admitted, "but he's already escaped. How can we ask him to stay?"

"I asked you. I asked Newkirk and LeBeau. I asked others and I've _ordered_ more. I ordered every single man in this camp to stay. And if ordering one more man to stay is what I need for this operation to succeed, I will not hesitate to give that order."

"I know that, sir. But we can't have a reluctant operator. We know too much. We could reveal too much. If we bring Baker in, he'll have all that information, too. Following orders is all well and good for most of the men in camp, but not someone with access to this much sensitive information."

"Do you trust him?"

"We trained together, but that was a year ago. How can I-"

"Kinch, do you trust him?"

"Yes."

"Then that's our answer."

* * *

Baker tried not to count the minutes while he waited for Colonel Hogan to return, staring at the source of his current troubles. The radio was one of the first things he'd noticed when he had come to Stalag Thirteen and his curiosity had kept bringing him back to study the device and the man who used it. However, his desire to look, to study, to ask questions had led him to discover things that perhaps he shouldn't have. And for better or worse, he'd never been one to mince words or to be silent when he had something to say.

Kinchloe did need help. Baker hadn't been wrong about that. So why hadn't his friend just accepted his help? It wouldn't have been much, but he could have eased the radioman's burdens for at least a few hours. Instead, everything had gone wrong and now he was wondering if he had blown his chance at an escape. What would he tell the others? Sorry, fellas, but I got into a fight with Kinchloe and angered Colonel Hogan?

The sound of footsteps spared Baker further commiserations; he turned and rose as Colonel Hogan approached. Baker braced himself; he would take any reprimand the officer saw fit to give.

Hogan gestured. "Take a seat." Once they both were settled, the officer said, "Kinchloe tells me that you want to help us. Is this true?"

Surprised by the question instead of a rebuke, Baker simply replied, "Yes, sir."

 _"How do you know German?"_ Hogan asked in the same language.

 _"Our family's piano teacher was German and he taught me the basics; too much of the_ _city was bearing grudges from the last war for him to care that we were colored. Then I took some classes in college and practiced with some of the guards after I was shot down."_ Baker knew that his German wasn't perfect; he'd never pass for a native with his accent, but was confident that the words and the grammar were correct.

Hogan looked impressed as he switched back to English. "Can you fix radios in addition to using them?"

"My father works in radio. Before he let me cover for him, he made sure I understood how everything worked and how to make repairs if anything went wrong. The owners of the station are white and we knew we'd be blamed if anything happened."

"You are very knowledgeable, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir."

"Yet, I am surprised that a man with your knowledge failed to realize that your offer of help would have caused my man more work, not less."

Baker gulped. There it was; the rebuke he had been waiting for, but he wasn't sure that he understood. "I know it wasn't much, sir, but I thought if I could just cover for a couple hours-"

Hogan held up a hand. "You're treating this station like a military base where people work in shifts and cover for one another. Because on a base, it doesn't matter who does the job as long as the job is done. Stalag Thirteen is different. We have communications with much of local Underground. Germans, who would be imprisoned or killed if their work were discovered. If the voice or the hand on the other end of the radio is unfamiliar or uncertain because you have to look up the code they'll think they've been discovered and break all ties with us. How long, Sergeant, do you think it would have taken Kinchloe to teach you the code and introduce your hand to our allies?"

The enormity the operation here hit Baker as if a wave had just crashed into him. No wonder Kinchloe was so upset. Any assistance he could have given would have created more work for his friend. "Days...weeks..." he admitted. "Longer than I am staying here."

"Correct," Hogan said. "But while your offer was misguided, I do want to thank you for bringing something important to my attention. Something that I intend to fix. We need another radio operator in this camp and, Baker, I believe that you are the man for the job."

Baker couldn't believe his ears. Hogan was asking him to stay at Stalag Thirteen! His voice rose barely above a whisper as he asked, "Stay?"

"Yes. We'll let the guards capture you and convince the Germans to assign you here."

Baker couldn't believe what he was hearing. Part of him wanted to scream that what Hogan was suggesting was impossible, but it was also impossible for an entire tunnel system with rooms full of German uniforms, explosives and even a printing press to exist in the middle of POW camp! Colonel Hogan was a man who probably took declarations that something was impossible as a personal challenge. No, the officer was serious. He was really asking Baker to stay!

"How long?" Baker asked.

"The duration."

Baker closed his eyes and tried to think. The fact that he was needed at Stalag Thirteen was unmistakable, but still he wanted to refuse. He escaped! He was going to be free! But now he was being asked to stay. To become a POW again. To give up his chance of freedom in order to help others escape. He'd have to go back...Just like Mammaw went back!

Baker's breath caught in his throat. Memories of his great-grandmother came flooding back. He remembered listening to her story, feeling her scars, following her finger as she pointed to a star. She escaped and then returned to help others. She risked her life and her freedom to be a conductor on the Underground Railroad.

If he stayed at Stalag Thirteen, he wouldn't be a POW, he'd be a conductor. And with that knowledge in his mind, Baker gave Hogan the only answer he could give. The only answer that allowed him to follow in his family's footsteps and the only answer that enabled him to serve where he was needed the most.

"I accept."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Swing Low, Sweet Chariot**

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who read and followed along. As part of the Big Bang Challenge, TwoMenAndAGuava (drakkynfyre47) created some thought provoking art for my story that you all should go check out! To see it please go to: archiveofourown (dotorg) / works/ 8709331

* * *

 _Swing low, sweet chariot  
Coming for to carry me home,  
Swing low, sweet chariot,  
Coming for to carry me home._

 _If you get there before I do,  
Coming for to carry me home  
Tell all my friends, I'm coming too.  
Coming for to carry me home._

A traditional African-American spiritual composed by Wallis Willis.

* * *

The feeling of nervous excitement filled the tunnels while the escapees from Stalag Four counted down the minutes until their journey would continue on. Yet, beneath the excitement was a sense of grief as the friends knew that this was probably be the last time that the four of them would ever be together.

Roque shook his head as he looked at his friend. "I can't believe you're staying."

"I can't believe it either," Baker admitted. "But I'm needed here."

"It doesn't feel right," Hill said. "We never would've escaped without you."

"Well, this isn't goodbye," Roque insisted. "We'll meet up in London after the war and the first round is on me."

"And the second on me," Hill added.

Baker smiled. "Thanks guys."

Wiggens, who had watched the enlisted men's goodbyes from a respectful distance, walked over to his men with a determined look in his eye. "Hill, Roque, hit the latrines. We're moving out soon."

"Yes, sir," the two men said before quickly scurrying down the tunnel. It was clear that their officer wanted to speak Baker - alone.

Wiggens gestured for Baker to take a seat across from him and once the younger man was seated, the officer said, "Is this what you want? If you were pressured into this, I can speak with Colonel Hogan."

Baker appreciated Wiggen's concern. To speak up for him, especially if Hogan decided to turn his request into an order, could have serious repercussions for the officer. Thankfully, that wouldn't be necessary. "Sir, I'd be lying if I said I wanted to remain a POW. But I understand why Colonel Hogan asked me to stay. I am needed here and I can help."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Major. Besides, I won't be alone. I'll have Kinchloe."

Wiggens clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Baker. If it wasn't for you, I'd still be back at Stalag Four." He held out a hand. "I'm proud to have served with you."

Baker shook the offered hand, his voice catching in his throat. "It was an honor, sir."

The two men grew silent as they just held onto one another for a few brief moments. Their silence expressing all the things they couldn't say aloud. The moment was broken all too soon when Colonel Hogan stepped into view. "It's time."

* * *

Baker had known intellectually what he had agreed to do when he had accepted Hogan's offer. But the full impact of his decision didn't hit him until he watched Newkirk and Carter lead his friends away and he realized that they wouldn't be coming back.

Kinchloe found Baker staring down the tunnel, pressed a mug into his hands and led him to a seat by the radio. Baker felt a twinge of guilt at this kindness since the last time they'd spoken things had gotten so heated. He was now going to have to work with this man and while he trusted Kinchloe, Kinchloe needed to know that Baker was on his side. "Kinch, I'm-"

"It's alright, Baker. You wanted to help and you are now."

"I still shouldn't have said those things. I should have seen that my words were making things worse."

"Well," Kinch said with a slight smile. "If you want to make up for that, read this." He handed over a small book. "The sooner you memorize this, the sooner you can start taking shifts."

Baker began flipping through the pages as Kinchloe continue to speak, "With the Underground, the code is mostly word substitution. When we use voice communication with London, it is the same. Though sometimes Mama Bear gets complacent and drops the code all together. However, when London wants to pass on sensitive information, we use Morse Code and a more involved code as you can see. Luckily, that one is in English."

Baker nodded; there was no doubt that there would be a lot of work ahead. So turning back to the beginning, he began to read. Yet, when he reached the bottom of the page, he couldn't recall a single word he had read. Shaking his head to clear it, he started again but after staring at the same page for five minutes without reading any of the words, he knew it was no use. He couldn't concentrate, not tonight. Not when his friends were risking their lives to escape while he stayed behind. Looking over at his colleague, Baker wondered how many times he had to stay behind to man the radio while the other members of the team carried out more dangerous operations.

"Kinch?"

"Yes?"

"Will I ever get used to it? Waiting here while the others..."

There was sadness in the experienced radioman's eyes as he replied, "No, you never will."

* * *

Two nights later, Baker found himself on his first mission outside the wire as he followed Colonel Hogan through the woods. They had received word that morning that Wiggens and the others had made it safely to London. Though now that they had rejoined the war, they wouldn't be safe for long. Baker would have to take comfort in the fact that they were where they were supposed to be.

Hogan held up a hand for him to stop when they drew within sight of a farmhouse. "This way," the officer ordered and then headed toward the fields beside the house.

"I'm going to hide in a barn?" Baker asked as he jogged to keep up.

"No, the hay stack."

The city born and raised young man held back a grimace; the hay didn't look much better than the ground. He'd bet that was going to itch, too. "Real comfortable. You sure the guards will find me here?"

"Our guards?" Hogan chuckled softly. "No. The farmer, yes."

"He's one of us?"

"He is, which will guarantee that the right people are called and it also helps establish his credentials as a loyal German subject."

"I guess I can handle the indignity for one night," Baker said and then flopped back into the hay. He was right; it was itchy. Though the view of the night sky made up for it.

Hogan sat down beside him and followed his gaze. "They're beautiful, aren't they?

"Yes, they are."

"You know how to read the stars?"

Hogan looked genuinely interested so Baker answered with a song. He kept his voice low as he couldn't forget he was in Germany, but as the music filled him, he was transported back to family's campfire.

 _"Follow the drinking gourd  
Follow the drinking gourd  
For the old man is a waitin'  
For to carry you to freedom  
Follow the drinking gourd ."  
_

Hogan's brow furrowed in thought. "Wasn't that song used by escaped slaves to find their way north?"

"That's the tradition. Mammaw never told us how she knew to follow the North Star."

"She escaped from slavery?"

"Yes."

Hogan looked impressed. "Sounds like escape is family tradition."

"So is going back, sir. Mammaw returned four times. She would have gone a fifth, but she freed my great-grandfather on the last the trip and... well, they didn't wait long to marry."

"And someday you'll tell your great-grandchildren how you, too, sacrificed your freedom to help others gain theirs."

Baker turned his head and met the officer's eyes. Kinch was right; Hogan was more than a good man; he was an exceptional one. And regardless of what happened on this assignment, he had no doubts that his decision had been the right one. Serving as a conductor was more than just a job, it was in his blood.

* * *

Baker tried to roll over when he felt something hard jabbing into his back. "Five more minutes," he murmured softly. But when the feeling didn't stop, he opened his eyes and saw nothing but hay. "Ahh!" he yelled as he suddenly remembered where he was.

A male voice started shouting for him to come out and Baker, now fully awake, crawled out of the hay stack. Looking up, he spotted a large farmer with a pitchfork standing over him. Raising his arms in surrender, he slowly rose to his feet.

The farmer made gestures and led the POW over to a bench where he sat down while the man yelled for his family members to call Stalag Thirteen. So far, everything was going according to Hogan's plan.

About thirty minutes later, a camp truck arrived at the farm and Baker had to hide a smile when he recognized one of guards walking towards him. Sergeant Schultz, however, made no attempt to hide his reaction; his jaw dropped and he hurried to the POW's side. "What are you doing here? You aren't supposed to be here!" he hissed.

Baker shrugged. "I guess I slept in the wrong hay stack."

Schultz groaned. "I'm going to be in so much trouble!"

"You're in trouble? First, Newkirk wins all my money and then I get recaptured by a farmer with a pitchfork. I must be the unluckiest POW in all Germany."

Schultz laughed, his own fear now forgotten. "You are unlucky because now you are going to the only POW camp where there has never been a successful escape."

"You sure know how to kick a guy when he's down."

"Into the truck. In, in."

Obeying orders, Baker climbed into the back. Schultz sure did get pushy when he got his confidence back. Oh well, at least Baker was now on his way to exactly where he needed to be.

* * *

Major Hochstetter was smiling. He looked like a man who had just received news of a promotion or that he had won a prize. And he was smiling at the recaptured POW sitting before him. "Now, Sergeant, you will tell me all you know about the man called Papa Bear."

"Papa Bear?" Baker looked askance at the Gestapo officer, doing his best to respond as Hogan had taught him. "Sorry, Major, but I stopped believing in Fairy Tales a long time ago. Besides, I'm more of a Br'er Rabbit fan."

"We'll get to Hogan's accomplices later. We know you came here to meet with him. We know that Stalag Thirteen is an escapee center for downed flyers."

Having trouble following the enemy's train of thought, Baker said, "Wait, I thought you wanted to know about Papa Bear?"

"Hogan is Papa Bear!"

"If you already know that, then why are you asking me?"

Hogan smirked. "Don't mind him, Sergeant. The Gestapo have trouble forming sentences when they aren't parroting ole scramblebrains."

Hochstetter glared at the American officer, anger radiating off of him as he said, "Hogan, when I am finished with Sergeant Baker here, it will be your turn. And I assure you that your interrogation will take place in much more unpleasant surroundings."

"Worse than Klink's office? Clearly you've never been stuck in here with only the Kommandant for company."

"Hogan!" Klink hollered. "I will not tolerate any of your American insolence. Then turning toward Baker, he said, "Answer the Major's questions."

"What was the question again?" Baker asked.

Hochstetter was growling as he replied, "Did you come to Stalag Thirteen to meet up with Papa Bear so he could get you out of the country?"

"I just escaped from a prison camp. Why would I knowingly run straight towards another?"

At that moment, any semblance of control Hochstetter may have had disappeared as he launched into a tirade that Baker didn't even attempt to follow. When Colonel Hogan had told him about Major Hochstetter, he hadn't been quite sure what to believe. But now Baker realized that every word the Gestapo officer spoke was true: Hogan was Papa Bear, Stalag Thirteen was home to a rescue and sabotage operation. But the way Hochstetter said these things made them sound like the deranged imaginings of a crazy person. Baker was beginning to question whether he still believed them - and he had seen the proof!

When Hochstetter showed no signs of letting up, Hogan tapped his man on the back. Shifting in his seat, Baker dropped a folded piece of paper to the floor. He started to bend over to pick it up only to straighten up again after a sharp elbow jabbed into his side. Hogan's foot came down, covering most of the paper, but not before the POWs' actions had attracted the attention of the Germans in the room.

"Aha! What is this?" Hochstetter reached down and snatched the paper.

"Hogan," Klink said, "this man better not be passing you forbidden messages."

Hochstetter's face lit up with joy when he unfolded the paper. "A map! Now I have my proof!"

Klink looked over the Major's shoulder. "It's definitely a map."

"Your powers of observation are not adding anything to this conversation."

Klink continued in spite of the insult. "But to where?"

"Switzerland," Baker said.

"Switzerland?" Klink echoed.

"Switzerland!" Hochstetter shouted.

Moving over to the Germans, Hogan glanced at the paper. "That's a map to Switzerland, all right. Now Stalag Thirteen is around here?" He pointed out his guess.

Klink panicked and hid the map. "You want to find out so you can escape!"

Hogan shrugged. "You can't blame a guy for trying."

Leaning forward, Baker asked, "How'd I do? How close did I get?"

Klink laughed. "You took a wrong turn and went north instead of south."

"Oh," Baker said.

Slapping his man on the back, Hogan said, "Don't worry about it. You'll do better next time."

"There won't be a next time," Klink announced. "No one ever escapes Stalag Thirteen."

"Unfortunately, true," Hogan admitted. "But Baker still has a chance. He's going back to Stalag Four."

"Bah! A waste of petrol. The prisoner stays here. You all deserve each other." And with the pronouncement, the Gestapo Major stormed out of the room.

* * *

The cell door shut with a clang and Baker took a quick glance around his new home for the next three weeks. For, in spite of his new position, he was still a POW and Colonel Klink was not going to let an attempted escape go without punishment, even if the escapee had escaped from another camp.

Sinking down into the bunk, Baker immediately jumped back up when he heard the sound of something shifting. It was a stone near the floor and Kinch's head was coming through!

"You know, most people tunnel out of the cooler," Baker joked as Kinch climbed into the cell.

Kinch grinned. "You'll find that Colonel Hogan doesn't think like most people."

"I've noticed."

Gesturing toward the tunnel, Kinchloe explained, "In addition to visitors, we send food so you don't have to eat whatever slop the Krauts give you. "

"Good to know."

"And if you get bored, you can read this." Kinch handed over a book. The cover read _The Great Gatsby_.

Baker fingered the cover, he'd heard of the book, but he'd never read it before. It should keep him busy for at least a day, though. Then opening the book, he received a surprise as he recognized the pages. It was the same code book he had looked at the night before. "Thanks. With three weeks in here, I'll be sure to have it memorized."

"Don't count on that. Knowing our Kommandant and, more importantly, our CO, the odds are that you'll be out of here closer to one week than three."

"Then I better get to work."

Kinch took that as a dismissal and headed back down the tunnel, but when only his head remained visible, he looked back and said, "Baker, welcome aboard."

Baker grinned as his friend disappeared. Following a star may not have brought him home but it certainly had brought him to a place where he belonged. So with those thoughts in his mind, the newest conductor opened the code book and went to work.


End file.
